Angry Black Woman

Oh, So It's Like That?

© 2008 Leighann Lord

I like to think of myself as a nice and likable person. Logically, I know it's impossible for everyone, everywhere to like me all the time. Some will. Some won't. That's life. It's a numbers game. One of my favorite books, "The Four Agreements" says, don't take anything personally but sometimes it's hard not to.

Even when someone doesn't like you, they usually have the good manners not to show it. That’s not being two faced, that’s diplomacy; besides, open hostility is no way to go through life. It's become so rare that someone tells me by word or deed that they dislike me that when it happened recently it caught me off guard. While at a gig a few weeks ago I met an industry colleague who's dislike for me was blatant.

I, of course, rationalized her behavior. As Frieda Friendly and I were introduced, she gave me a tepid handshake. Hmm, maybe she's germaphobic. She didn't offer me the perfunctory polite smile. Tooth ache? No eye contact. Shy? And although she muttered a terse, "Nice to meet you." I could see it wasn't nice for her at all.

What sealed the deal was when I saw she had plenty of teeth to flash and personality to share with everybody and anybody there but me. She froze me out so completely I could have died of hypothermia. I thought perhaps this was an isolated incident, but when I ran into her again a day later and said hello, she assiduously ignored me and seemed angry that I had even spoken to her. Seems pretty personal to me.

As far as I know this was our first meeting so I don’t know where any of this was coming from. I began to wonder, "Why doesn't she like me? Why do I make her so angry? Is it something I said; something I did?" It could be anything. It could be nothing. I could look like the chic who stole her ex or she could dislike me by proxy on behalf of a friend. Maybe something about me just doesn't sit well with her. It happens. And sometimes people don't need a reason. They just don't like you and that's all she wrote.

It isn’t really wise to put too much thought into this. The mind can posit all kinds of questions, and lacking real answers, fabricate them. That’s how drama gets started. Better questions may be why do I care? Does it matter? Do I really have the time and energy for this? No, probably not.

Another one of "The Four Agreements" is "Don’t assume anything." I realize now, that’s exactly what I did. I assumed since we were the only two "Sisters" in the group at our initial meeting that we’d share an automatic comradery. And in a way we did. We are both members of the Angry Black Woman club.

A Svengali like comedy club booker once told me he thought I was "a very angry person." I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but that would have given too much credence to his theory.

The image of The Angry Black Woman is iconic bordering on stereotypical. Everybody gets mad, but nobody does anger quite like us. That's our thing. We nurture, cultivate and unleash it at a moment's notice. Black Women go from zero to mad in a minute. If our anger was a car it would be a Lamborghini.

Most people remember and reminisce about happy times. Black Women fondly remember the angry times. "Remember that time you pissed me off and I wanted to kill you? Whew, that was great!" We Angry Black Women don't believe in closure. That's some new age nonsense that doesn't apply to us. For us anger is like air. We live, survive and thrive on it.

Paradoxically, many Angry Black Women are also Good Christian Women, trying to get and stay right with the Lord. God asks that we forgive, and we try our best to do that, but we don't ever forget. As a matter of fact, Black Women make excellent historians because of our amazing memory. No matter how old the transgression we can call it up and relive it with immediate intensity. The combination of instant anger and total recall is why most men find it difficult to argue with us.

My Dad complains – not to my Mother, of course, - that sometimes they go to sleep at night and everything is fine; and in the morning my Mother wakes up mad at him. He has no idea why. It could be his snoring but most likely it's again a matter of memory.

Men have great short term memory. This helps them argue about what is happening right now. Women have great long term memory which helps us argue about what happened yesterday, last week and last month. When my Mom wakes up mad she has probably remembered something my Dad did years ago. She won't get around to being mad about what he did yesterday until next year.

I'm amazed that more Black Women aren't serial killers. It's a natural fit: We're angry and amazing multitaskers. We don't kill however because being mad at someone is lot more fun when they're around to feel your fury.

Where does all this anger come from? Is it nature or is it nurture? I certainly get a lot of my surliness from my Mom. It's common to see girls at play with hands on undeveloped hips, necks cranking, eyes rolling, and teeth sucking giving somebody what for in picture perfect imitations of their momma's and aunties.

I, however, think we're born with it. Ever have a baby girl who can't talk yet, stare at you with a very intense look on her face? You know she's thinking about something serious. And she is. She's thinking, "As soon as I learn how to talk, I'm gonna cuss you out."

Sometimes you'll see a random Happy Black Woman. She's usually young. In place of the traditional scowl she is smiling. Somehow the poor thing has gotten separated from the group and is way off message. Other Black Women will look at her and wonder: "What's she so happy about?" And an Elder will look on and sagely say, "Humph. Give it time."

They say it takes 17 muscles to smile and 43 muscles to frown. With all the scowling, the average Angry Black Woman has enough strength in her facial muscles to bench press a Buick. It's not that we can't smile -- Miracles do happen -- but a frown is our default face.

I must confess, I haven’t been going to the Angry Black Woman meetings as much as I used to. I’m at the stage in my life where I realize anger – constant anger – is enervating. It saps my strength, increases my stress, and undirected or unresolved accomplishes nothing. I’m not saying I don’t angry. I do. It’s a habit and I’m good at it, but before I turn myself into a weapon of mass destruction I light a candle, take a breath and remind myself that I don’t have bail money.

So ultimately I’m not mad at Sister Frieda. Several years my junior, she’s just getting started on her anger journey. I can only hope her immaturity, inappropriate behavior and un-professionalism don’t get her into too much trouble. Next time she may not be so lucky. She may meet the fellow Angry Black Woman who says, "Oh, so it’s like that?" takes up gauntlet and proceeds to beat her ass with it. My professional opinion? Give it time.

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Back to School Supplies

It's The Most Wonderful Time of The Year

© 2008 Leighann Lord

I always get a little nostalgic this time of year. I have fond memories of that First Day of School Smell: a combination of polished wood, fresh paint, chalk and teachers' perfume.

I often joke that because my birthday is in September, my birthday presents were always back to school supplies; but to be honest, I miss it. I love the accoutrement of education. There was nothing like reaching into your brand new book bag, cracking open a pristine hard cover notebook, writing on fresh clean pages with a spiffy new pen. As a serious note taker I had pens in blue, black and red ink. I still have an affinity for the old blue barrel, medium point, four color BiC pen. The orange barrel means it's a fine point.

I'm a fiend for stationery. I still take pleasure in cruising through the pen section at Staples. I even know where all the cool pen purveyors are in New York City like, Rebecca Moss. I've made a pilgrimage to The Fountain Pen Hospital, and I can easily while away an afternoon at Kate's Paperie.

My love of pens is genetic and even great penmanship tends to run in the family. My Great Grandfather was a calligrapher who earned money on the side doing wedding invitations by hand. My Grandmother was ambidextrous, writing beautifully with both hands. My Mom's penmanship and prolific letter writing is legendary among our family and friends. My penmanship doesn't quite reach calligrapher quality. I've had to work on it to uphold the family honor, but I'm proud to say there's no doctor's chicken scratch here. We actually have a few doctors in my family, and we couldn't be more mortified.

Back to school shopping isn't just about stationery, there are clothes too, but I went to Catholic School. I wore a uniform in grammar school and endured a strict dress code in high school. All shirts and blouses had to have collars, skirts had to reach your knee cap and we were not allowed to wear laced, rubber soled shoes. Violation of the dress code meant a trip to the Girls Dean, Mrs. Spear (retired Army), would choose an appropriate outfit for you change into from the clothing rack in her office; a very scarring experience, but a valuable lesson that no one ever repeated.

Today's back to school necessities include quite a bit of technology, but when I was in school the gotta have gadgets were a compass, an electric pencil sharpener and a protractor. We needed the compass to draw circles and stab classmates. The electric pencil sharpener came in handy to weaponize your pencils in case you lost your compass. I'm pretty sure the protractor had a purpose but for the life of me I can't remember what it was. Either I never learned it or that knowledge has been replaced by the lyrics to "When I Grow Up" by the Pussy Cat Dolls.

If you were really high tech, you had a scientific calculator. "Oooh! Ahhh!" I never quite learned to master it. Given it's level of user friendliness it must be running on Windows Vista.

Parents don't get off that cheap anymore. Today's kids can't learn without an iPod, a cellphone and a laptop. And they out grow their gadgets almost as fast as their clothes. Luckily, technology is always in season. It would seem though that there are no hard and fast seasons for anything anymore.

This year the back to school sales ads began appearing about an hour after school let out for the summer. I guess they can't run them any later or they'll interfere with Christmas advertising. An early August visit to the craft store, Michael's, treated me to the surreal vision of Halloween and Thanksgiving decorations. The felt pumpkins looked wilted and the Pilgrims looked hot and sweaty.

I'm beginning to suspect why I, and most folks I know, feel so anxious, rushed and fatigued all the time. The retail world has become too out of sync with everyday life. Being advertised to so far out of season is disorienting. I stand by the conviction that hawking swim wear in January is wrong. I feel sorry for the mannequins. They look so cold.

I'd like to dash off an email to AdWeek.com imploring the industry to please stop rushing me but email is easy to ignore. I blame the Nigerians who keep looking for people to help them with all the bank accounts that have been mysteriously abandoned in their country.

I wonder then if a more old fashioned approach would be more effective. It might indeed be time to marshal my stationery forces and pen a hand written letter. Of course nothing grabs the attention more than a good old fashion note scribbled in purple crayon. I'd love to use the box of Crayola 64s that I bought on sale back in June.

Welcome Back to School everybody!

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Betting On the Future

Let It Ride Baby

© 2008 Leighann Lord

I don't get gambling. My Husband tried to teach me to play roulette. He put the money on the table. The wheel spun. The ball fell. A man in a shiny black vest took our money.

"We get that back, right?"

"Uh, no." my Husband said.

"Why not?"

"That's not how it works."

"But I'm just learning. We have to pay for that?"

"Yes."

Frown.

Sigh.

My dislike for gambling doesn't mean I'm not a risk taker. I'm a roller coaster junkie, a stand-up comedian, and I drive in New York City during rush hour. Gambling seems a tad passé.

Some people gamble for fun. The winning part certainly seems like a blast, but I don't handle the losing part very well. I watched my Dad play video poker last week. He put in $20. When he was up $21.75 I said, "Woo hoo! Cash out!" When he was down to $18 I panicked. I saw my meager inheritance folding like a pair of deuces in the face of a flush.

Ultimately how grown folks spend their time and money is their business. The operative adjective-noun pairing here is Grown Folks. I am perpetually perplexed by the parents who think its okay to bring their children to a casino. As if childhood isn’t short enough. It's not okay. It's a casino!

Do parents think the bright lights and cacophony of sound will amuse their toddlers? Do they want the kids to see that their future is riding on pure luck of the draw? While this is quite the hands on lesson in finance, teaching children about money by taking them to a casino is like teaching them about sex by taking them to a strip club. If that sentence doesn't bother you, get help.

Recently while working at a casino, I was on my way to the showroom and had to navigate my way through a bottle neck of strollers. I was so disgusted I wanted to scream,

"What? Did Chuck E. Cheese go out of business? Did Disney World shut down? Are baby sitters on strike? Wouldn't it be nice if there was some appropriate place to take your kid like a park, a museum or a G-Rated movie? Too bad here's nothing like that, huh."

I'm sorry, but if you can't afford a baby sitter, you can't afford to gamble.

My unveiled contempt was shared by those couples who planned a nice weekend get away without their kids, only to find themselves rubbing elbows with the Teletubbies, Elmo and Hannah Montana crowd.

A casino isn't a total den of iniquity. In a way it's very much like a church, permeated with a raw and real spirituality. Underneath the constant chime of slot machines you can almost hear the ardent prayers to win big, beat the house or to not lose anymore than they already have. With all their heart and soul people are making fervent promises and pacts with their higher power. God is being called out to prove his existence; to put up or shut up.

Whether propelled by fear or fun, people gamble with the best of intentions. Against the odds, they are full of hope. Maybe parents aren't being selfish, inappropriate and delusional when they bring their children into a casino. They're simply trying to share a sense of excitement, hope and possibility.

Yeah, right. Wanna bet?

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It's All Dennis Miller's Fault

© 2008 Leighann Lord

"A good rule of thumb is if you've made it to thirty-five and your job still requires you to wear a name tag, you've made a serious vocational error." — Dennis Miller

When I heard Dennis tell this joke on TV years ago, I howled. I loved it. Although it smacked of elitism I still found it to be a flat out funny line. So imagine my horror when the cruise line I do shows for asked me to wear one.

New security rules require that all staff members – even the funny ones – wear a name tag while on board ship. I understand the need for tighter security but with Dennis' words echoing in my ears I couldn't help feeling that I had somehow made the vocational error of which he joked.

I'm no stranger to wearing a name tag. I had one many moons ago when I worked at B'Dalton Bookseller. But it's been my experience that no good comes from wearing a name tag. Customers only want to know your name when they're angry and want to report you to someone. We can't have that now can we?

Given it's uniqueness, I've become a bit proprietary about my name. The last thing I want is someone leering in the general direction of my left breast and butchering the pronunciation. There are not a lot of Leighann's in the world and even fewer who spell it the same way I do. The 'gh' seems to trip people up. I didn't always like my name. When I was seven years old I announced to my parents at the dinner table that I had changed it to Clarisse. I fancied it because it was the name of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer's girlfriend. Surprisingly it didn't catch on.

Family truths be told, Leighann wasn't even supposed to be my name. My parents had originally planned that if they ever had a daughter they would name her Rhonda. However, by the time I was actually born they had forgotten. It's just as well. I don't look like a Rhonda, but that's the name I give when they ask at Starbucks.

It doesn't happen at every location, but at the very busy ones they take your order, ask your name, and then scribble it on your cup. Wary New Yorker that I am, this makes me uncomfortable. Sell me the coffee and stop invading my privacy. To preserve my anonymity, Rhonda has become my Starbucks identity. Coincidentally, we both happen to love Caramel Macchiatos.

But I digress.

Part of my resistance to wearing a name tag is that the successful trajectory of my career should put my name up in lights, not attached to a plastic pin on my shirt. Stand-ups by nature want to stand out, not be tagged and lumped with the group. The characteristics that make me a good comic don't necessarily help me play well with others.

As with most neuroses much of this stems from childhood. Stereotypically, I was horrible at sports and was always one of the last kids picked for any group athletic activity. There are two ways to cope with this: buy a trench coat or find the funny. I chose the latter. My motto is "Those who can, do; those who can't, mock."

I was an academic loner as well, detesting group projects. I remember damn near weeping in disgust when Brother Philip, my sophomore year Speech teacher, announced that our final grade depended on a group presentation. I didn't get to choose who would be in my group either. Brother Philip did the honors and I was saddled with more than my fair share of academic dead weight: mediocre students and slackers who's sole purpose in life was lowering my GPA. To stave off grade degradation I did all the work myself and thus missed the entire point of the lesson: how to work well with others.

The Big Beefy Men in gleaming white uniforms who work security on the cruise ship seemed unmoved by childhood traumas, and were even less enthused by my artistic sense of self importance. They gestured vaguely to the vicinity of my left breast and demanded to know the whereabouts of my name tag. Preferring not to walk the plank, I dug out the offending name tag and pinned it on.

How am I coping? Not very well -- damn you, Dennis -- but as long as she gets an occasional Caramel Macchiato, Rhonda seems fine with it.

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Teed Off With Tiger

Your Logic Has a Hole
Dear Tiger, Dear Tiger

© 2008 Leighann Lord

I've got to start reading my Wall Street Journal in a timelier manner. Although I have the best of intentions I don't always get to it, especially when I'm traveling. I was paging through an old issue and saw an ad for a contest: "Buick's Tee Off with Tiger." The grand prize is winning a "once in a lifetime opportunity to play golf with Tiger as your caddy." In the words of Stuey Griffin (Family Guy): "What the duce?" Who sanctioned this? It may not "be" wrong, but it sure "feels" wrong.

Undoubtedly the opportunity to win one of the greatest golfers in the world as your caddy sounds like a fun idea on the surface, but when that golfer is Black, not only does it raise eyebrows, but mine are damn near co-mingling with my hair line. I know Tiger is a self described Cablinasian, but in America the "One Drop Rule" puts him in The 12% Club, giving the contest racial overtones that cannot be ignored.

I might be able to get past it if the contest was for charity, but it's for Buick. Yes, American automakers are struggling right now, but they don't exactly rank up there with The Red Cross. Just because they're not making a profit doesn't mean they are not-for-profit.

Although the game now appeals to a more diverse audience then ever, I think it's safe to say that the majority of golfers are still predominantly white. I'm not saying Black people don't play golf (my Dad used to play and he's Black) but, to date, golf courses do not have the same prominence, prevalence or popularity on the urban landscape as do basketball courts. This may be why Buick chose to advertise the contest in The Wall Street Journal and not in The Amsterdam News.

From the demographic of people to whom this event was advertised, who are most likely to play golf and enter the contest, there is a reasonably high probability that the winner will be white. A White man winning a Black man to caddy for him seems flat out wrong.

And then there's Tiger. What was he thinking? Either he has a really good sense of humor or a very bad grasp of American history. How much more money does he need? Are gas prices so high that he too is feeling the pinch at the pump? When is enough, enough? At what point are you financial secure, powerful and famous enough to say, "Hell no, I'm not doing that!"?

Now look, I know I'm wrong. I have absolutely no business looking at Tiger, or anyone else for that matter, and judging his choices. Believe me, I don't want to do it; but somebody has to. So I'm taking the hit to my spiritual well being for the team. You're welcome.

I'm angry at myself for not finding out about this earlier. It's too late to enter now, and I could have. According to the rules the contest was open to anyone over 18 with a valid drivers’ license. Doing the actual contest though would have been difficult for me. Participants have to accurately predict Tiger's score each round in every tournament he plays during the contest period. I have no idea how to do that.

Despite taking a semester of golf in high school, I am clueless. But for this I would have learned. I would have gone to Google University and availed myself to the wonders of Wikipedia. I would have tried my best to win so that I could have the satisfaction of setting Tiger free from Buick bondage.

Happy National Golf Month!

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Grandma's Best Friend

Oh For the Love of Nub

© 2008 Leighann Lord

I am not my dog's favorite person. I wish I was and the fact that I'm not is a major blow to my ego. Oh, he likes me well enough. I feed him, pet him, brush him, give him his medicine, and take him to the vet. But I can tell from the way he looks at my Mother that he thinks the sun rises and sets on her, not me.